by Lucas Rocha
Henrique:
You’re not a bother at all! I’m free. Where can we meet?
Ian:
How about the Botafogo Beach Mall?
Henrique:
Great. Meet you there in … what? Half an hour?
Ian:
Okay. Starbucks?
Henrique:
See you there.
Ian:
Thank you.
:)
I slide the phone back into my pocket and press the stop button. I squeeze between the people tired from their workdays, exit the bus, and start my walk toward the subway.
+
I recognize Ian right away from his shaved head and full beard, just like the picture he sent me. He’s sitting at a two-seat table with two coffees in front of him, and I notice that one of his legs is bouncing up and down. He seems impatient and uncomfortable. When he sees me approach, he smiles.
“I didn’t know what you like, so I ordered a regular coffee with milk,” he says, sliding one of the cups toward me. Next to the cup, there are little packets of all the types of sugar and sweeteners available at Starbucks. I grab a Splenda, open the lid of my coffee, and pour it into the liquid, mixing with the wood stirrer.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say, delighted by his kindness, then sip the beverage and enjoy the refreshing sensation down my throat. “It’s delicious.”
“Oh, and I added a little bit of mint.”
“I’ve never tried that. It’s good.”
He smiles. I put my backpack on my lap and stare at him, not really knowing how to start a conversation with someone I don’t know. I have a degree in design, for God’s sake, not psychology.
“So …” I begin, trying to establish a modicum of intimacy before entering the conversation, because I think that’s what he expects. He looks younger than me, and it’s a truth universally acknowledged that the eldest are wiser and therefore should lead the way. I think. “I don’t want to ask again how things are, because you already said they’re confusing, but … how are you dealing with all of it?”
He flashes an awkward smile, because he also doesn’t really seem to know how to start the conversation, especially with someone he doesn’t know. This is starting to feel like a job interview.
An agonizing job interview.
“Everything is so new,” he tries to summarize.
“And scary.”
“And scary,” he echoes, nodding. “But it’s not the end of the world, is it?”
“It just looks like it,” I say with a smile. I take another sip of the coffee. “But no, it’s not the end of the world. I mean, look at me: I’m alive, right? A few episodes of that summertime sadness and a well of irony, but I’m here, and that’s all that matters.”
“Is it hard?” he asks, and I notice his voice is soft because he doesn’t want anyone around to listen to our conversation. So I lower mine, too, and I’m sure we look like two revolutionary leaders conspiring to overthrow a totalitarian regime.
“Depends on what you see as hard. It’s annoying, draining, and exhausting … but hard is a really strong word. Maybe psychologically hard. Physically, only once in a while.”
“I’m sorry, I …” Ian breathes heavily, and he takes another sip of his coffee, trying to get his thoughts back on track. But he doesn’t manage to say anything else.
“You’re scared.” I say what’s on his mind, and he agrees. “Scared of what other people will say, scared of what your life is going to look like from now on, scared that you will be rejected, and scared of all the things you’ll need to put into perspective because of this virus. Am I right?”
“Spot on.”
“I know what it’s like.” From the outside, I might seem like the HIV guru who has already overcome all these fears, but they are still here, hidden somewhere. Ian doesn’t need to know that, though.
Silence takes over our table, as if the words were gunshots, capable of hitting someone right in the forehead, splattering brains and bone all over the place.
I try to focus on being the hard-and-wise older person at the table and keep talking. “Say what you’re thinking. No restrictions. We don’t even know each other, so if I pass judgment, you have nothing to worry about. Not that I will, of course. I’m not that kind of person.”
He smiles again and looks me right in the eye. It usually bothers me when someone does that, but his brown eyes seem so innocent and well-intentioned at the same time that I don’t mind it, because I know he’s not trying to decipher me.
“I’m thinking that I could have been more careful, and everything could have been different.”
“And also that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a time machine so you could go back to when you had unprotected sex and knock down the bedroom door and yell, ‘Don’t do it!’ ”
“That’s about it.” He smiles.
“It’s not very healthy to think about the impossible.”
“It’s inevitable.”
“You know what I thought when I got my results?” I ask.
“What?”
“That I should have been more careful, and everything could have been different. And that time machines should definitely have already been invented.”
He smiles again. “It’s bizarre, isn’t it?” Ian asks, grabbing his coffee cup with both hands and swirling it around the table. Uneasy, uncomfortable, unsettled. “We know exactly what to do, but then we think it will never happen to us, until it does. And then we blame ourselves, thinking that everything could have been different.”
“We think we’re a bizarre kind of superhero, and that the stories we hear don’t happen in real life. As if HIV were a big collective delirium that only happens to people in sad movies that get nominated for Oscars,” I add. “But this isn’t about blame. We only blame ourselves for a little while. I know it’s all very recent for you, Ian, but that feeling will go away eventually, or at least you’ll find a way to tuck it back in a corner of your mind. Because, in the end, it is not about blame.”
“For you, what’s been the worst part?” he asks.
“My mind. Definitely my mind and the things that it creates out of my fears. They never go away, you know?” He nods. I keep talking. “Maybe that’s the biggest lie in the history of lies that the doctors tell you to make you feel better. They say, ‘You get used to it with time. In time, you don’t even remember that you have the virus, because you become undetectable, and your odds of transmitting it are zero, and the side effects of the medicine aren’t as bad, and you take your pill automatically. As if it were for high blood pressure. As if it were for diabetes.’ ” I let out a dry laugh. “But it’s a lie, at least for me. Not a single day goes by when I don’t remember the virus, and not one goes by when I don’t worry that I’m not exactly like everyone else anymore.”
Ian looks at me attentively.
“I’m sorry, I …” I smile humorlessly, running my hands over my red hair in an attempt to tame it. “I should be trying to make you feel better, and look at what I’m doing.”
“It’s not a problem. It’s great that someone is being honest, for a change.”
“Doctors only think they know what happens in here,” I say, pointing at my own head. “And of course we process it all in our own way. When I have doctors’ appointments, I meet a lot of people in the waiting rooms, and one thing I’ve learned is that we each view the virus—and life with the virus—differently. I met a woman who got it from her husband because he was cheating on her, but she forgave him and was pregnant, on treatment so the child would be born without the virus. And a forty-five-year-old man, father to a fifteen-year-old girl, with enough money to travel wherever he wanted every six months. When we talked, he seemed determined to make things work and said that he didn’t want to give up on life, that he loved to see the world, and that his diagnosis had given him a new perspective on how much he could still enjoy. Then he stopped coming to the clinic, and one day I saw on the news that he had jumped fro
m a twelfth-floor window.” I shrug. “The thing is, even with all the information out there, people are still shitting themselves with fear of having something like this in their lives, but everyone responds to bad news in a different way.”
“And how did you take the bad news?” he asks.
I look away from him for a few seconds and gaze at the name scribbled on the side of the coffee cup next to a smile that the barista drew.
I try to organize my thoughts.
“At first, I had this fixed idea that the clinic had screwed up my blood test and that the reagent they had used had gone bad.” I laugh when I remember how that coping mechanism had seemed like the easiest at the time. I scratch my cheek and feel my unkempt beard poking the tips of my fingers. “I redid the test at a private lab, and it also came back positive. So I started thinking that the private lab was wrong and went to another and took the test again. When I realized it was not a bad joke or a collective mistake, I started thinking about what I had to do. I read a lot about the history of the virus and decided that not taking care of myself would be stupid, so I started treatment.”
“Did you have any side effects?”
“A few, but nothing I couldn’t get over. There’s a medicine that most people take, and it affects your nervous system, so I had a lot of nightmares at first, and my moods were unpredictable. Sometimes I’d blow up at my roommate because he’d leave his wigs around the living room, and then I would start crying because I thought I’d hurt the only friend I had and he’d never want to see my face again.” I laugh one more time, which makes Ian laugh as well. I must seem totally out of balance. “And once in a while, the bad thoughts still happen, but we learn to hide how we feel. Because it’s almost always just the medicine lying to us and messing with our heads, making us believe that nobody cares, when in fact a lot of people do care.”
“And does anyone know about you?” he asks.
“My friend with all the wigs, who’s the best person in the universe,” I answer with a smile. “His name is Eric, and he does drag.”
“And Victor,” he adds, when he realizes I don’t include anyone else.
“And Victor,” I echo, and I’m sure he notices the annoyed tone in my voice.
“What’s going on between the two of you?”
I shake my head to express all the doubts I have about him. “Things are always good up until the Big Reveal. That’s when everyone withdraws. But I’m already used to it.”
My words sound bitter, which Ian notices.
“It sounds like you’ve had more than one disappointment.”
“That’s the bad part of the virus: You never know how someone is going to react. I’ve heard stories of some who handle being in serodiscordant relationships very well, and I wish I were one of those people who could tell you that the virus isn’t a problem and I found the love of my life, but I haven’t been very lucky over the last three years.”
“So Victor’s wasn’t the first negative reaction you’ve faced?”
“It wasn’t, but I always wonder if it’s a good idea to tell the people I’m into about my status. I take every precaution and consider my responsibility in all this, but at the same time, I don’t know if it’s fair not to talk about it, you know? Not talking only feeds into fear and prejudice.”
“And you like Victor?”
I find it difficult to answer.
“He’s a cool guy, and we have a lot in common, but I’m always a bit frustrated by the negative reactions, even though I know they exist.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“For someone I just met, you’re pretty incisive,” I say.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind talking about it.” I smile. “Well, if you’re looking for a yes or no, I’ll say yes, I like him. But not the reaction.”
“His or in general?”
“In general. I think it’s a defense mechanism, you know—that I don’t let myself get too attached to someone so I don’t get hurt later, because it has happened once and I don’t want it to happen again.”
Carlos suddenly invades my thoughts. That moron.
“Any particular post–Big Reveal disappointments?” Ian seems interested in my life, and I notice his body tilting forward a little, and that his left elbow is propped against the table. He’s like a child in a library, anxiously awaiting the story.
I’m not sure why, but his interested expression makes me laugh. Not one of the dry laughs that echoes in the back of your throat and feels more like disdain, but one with a full-toothed smile, with tears in your eyes and ragged breath.
He realizes what is happening and moves his elbow away from the table, shoving his hands between his legs.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to … overstep,” he says, embarrassed.
“I told you I don’t mind. You seem like the kind of person who feels good hearing about other people’s tragedies, am I right?” I don’t mean it as a criticism, and he can tell that by the humor in my voice.
“Game of Thrones is my favorite TV show. I love a little bit of tragedy.”
“Game of Thrones is such a cliché. You should try some Russian literature if you’re looking for real tragedy. Or The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, for something shorter.”
“Game of Thrones has dragons. It’s cooler.”
“Okay, one should not discuss matters of taste, as my mom would say. But as for my own tragedy, which is much more important than any beheadings in Westeros—”
“So you do watch Game of Thrones!”
“Focus!” I snap my fingers, and he smiles. “As for my tragedy: It involves a boy and another fantasy world, but this one was shot in New Zealand …”
“What does The Lord of the Rings have to do with the story?”
“My ex was crazy about Tolkien and those movies. I was, too, but when things went south between us, I never managed to look at Gandalf’s face again without thinking of him as an old asshole, even though I know he has nothing to do with my problems.”
“And that was one of the guys who disappeared after the Big Reveal?”
“Not quite like that, and that’s what hurt the most,” I say, trying to ignore the memory of Carlos’s hazel eyes and his straw-colored hair, and the birthmark hidden on his cheek, right beneath the thick blond beard that he insisted on growing, even though I hated it. “I found out I had HIV when I was with him. We were a weird duo, because while I was already not living with my parents anymore and felt pretty at peace with my sexuality, he had a serious complex, wouldn’t come out to anyone because of his military father and religious mother, and was afraid to leave the nest and take on the world. Ours was one of those relationships you had to hide behind the facade of friendship, you know? But, anyway, we went to get tested together, that whole thing of boyfriends ready to take our commitment to the next level, because I kept insisting that he needed to come out of the closet and find a way to be happy. Then all my tests came back positive, and his was negative, and he told me he’d still be there to give me all the support I might need. And I felt relieved in that moment, because even if I was in deep shit with this virus, I still had a speck of hope that at least the HIV wouldn’t affect that one relationship.
“We’d always used condoms, even before my diagnosis, but I was still worried. He came with me to the first few doctor’s appointments, and I insisted he should repeat the test three more times throughout the following year to be sure it was negative. He always told me that, if by any chance one of those results came back positive, nothing would change between us. That we’d go through it together, and all that motivational BS.
“Then the testing cycle was done, and he was sure he didn’t have the virus. I’d never been so relieved in my entire life, because I don’t ever want to know what it’s like to be responsible for having transmitted it to someone. And then after all that time dealing with and talking about HIV, doing a lot of research about the virus and even goin
g to counseling together to discuss it with a therapist, he just disappeared. Poof, like smoke. He wouldn’t pick up my calls, would see my texts and not get back to me. When I finally worked up the courage to go to his place, his parents opened the door with suspicious looks. All they knew about me was that Carlos and I were friends, but they wanted to know my name. They recognized me from photos, all with other people in them, too, because Carlos thought photos of just the two of us together would make people talk. So his mother told me he’d gone to New Zealand to study abroad. She asked me if I’d known he was going, and she thought it was weird when I said no, because he’d been saving the money for eight months and bought the ticket way in advance. His dad even added, proudly, that Carlos had said he was exchanging letters with a girl in the program, and that the two of them were probably meeting up and bound to start a relationship. Of course, I didn’t say anything, but I wavered between laughter and shock, because his dad seemed like he bought the story about an international girlfriend.
“I couldn’t understand why he’d been so dishonest with me, but I took a deep breath and spent the next two days writing him a long email, saying that I’d been to his place and found out about New Zealand. The bastard replied with a photo about a week later. It seemed I was just one among his many friends. The message was impersonal, like one of those that you copy and paste to all of your contacts, saying that he missed me but it was time for a change, and that he was really happy with the decision. He added that he’d changed his phone number, so he was sorry if I’d tried to call him or sent texts he wasn’t able to answer.”
I take a sip of my coffee that’s already cold, my throat welcoming the liquid after all this talking. I notice that Ian hasn’t blinked since I stopped for a breath.
“What a huge asshole …” he mumbles, mouth agape.
“Yeah. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the year teary-eyed and feeling sorry for myself. It was the worst experience I’ve had in my life. Honestly, it was worse than the HIV bombshell. Because I trusted him and thought we’d have a lasting relationship, you know? We had plans to move to São Paulo or somewhere in the Northeast after college, and he just threw a smoke bomb and disappeared like the Wicked Witch of the West.